


What Cannot Be Cut Away

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Demands of the Qun, Suicidal Thoughts, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:19:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tal-Vashoth go mad without the Qun. In Par Vollen he was taught it, in Seheron he saw it, and never did he question it, all those many years.</p><p>What else is The Iron Bull supposed to presume, when it starts happening to him? He knows how this ends. He won't put everyone else at risk just to save his own neck. (Spoiler: everyone else disagrees with this plan.)</p><p>Tal-Vashoth go mad without the Qun. There are ways to ensure that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Cannot Be Cut Away

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by LaviniaD! Thank you as always, darling.  
> My lovely artist was [Shae-C](http://shae-c-art.tumblr.com/) who was an absolute joy to work with. If you want to see all the images together on her tumblr, go [here!](http://shae-c-art.tumblr.com/post/150036438016/adoribull-minibang-artwork-for-coveredinfeels)

To be honest, he expected going Tal Vashoth to be harder.

There's the old fears, red at the edges. Shit, he saw enough Tal-Vashoth go about it the hard way in Seheron.

But there's still purpose, in what he does. A place to be, defined less by stones in the earth and more by people, particularly that bunch of assholes who insist on calling him Chief even as they sit around a table in the Herald's Rest, loudly planning mutiny on the grounds of pie, unequal shares thereof.

There's the old habits, hard to break. Reports written and not sent. Catching himself in rituals that no longer have meaning. Others that might still have a purpose in this new life. The hard part is telling the two apart. _Is it an anchor, or a chain?_ Tama would say, may still say to the imekari, crosslegged at her feet. If it is an anchor that keeps you steady, hold fast to it. If it is a chain that holds you back, break through.

Probably wise words, Tama, but how am I to apply them to figuring out what the hell to do now?

There's new habits, too, many of them involving a mage from Tevinter who, as it turns out, was perfectly happy to fuck a qunari spy but didn't linger afterwards until he wasn't a spy any more. Fair enough. He, himself, hasn't actually slept with a bed partner in years. That's a good way to get a knife in any one of several uncomfortable places.

Dorian snores, incidentally. He sprawls across the bed, and steals the blankets. He clings some nights, and kicks in his sleep in others.

It's possible Bull's never slept so well in his life.

What that means, he couldn't say.

Among all this internal chaos, he doesn't think much of it, when there's only one dose left in the bottom of the jar. Doesn't even know why he keeps taking the stuff. It's just for nutrition, something they supplied to some of the Ben-Hassrath. He didn't start taking it until Seheron, and now he supposes he'll stop.

One pressed pill, gritty at the edges, swallowed dry. Bitterness in the back of his throat. One more habit shed.

* * *

A memory that lingers.

A form. A title. A string of letters and numbers that will make sense to a Tamassran, somewhere. Date, time, place and circumstances of defection. Date, time, place and cause of death.

His very first mission in Seheron. A Tal-Vashoth just as they'd been described in training, wild-eyed, screaming incoherent nonsense as Hissrad cut him down; no other option.

Interviews, afterwards. Former colleagues, subordinates: respected, battle-hardened, in Seheron eighteen months. Planned abscondence, well-organised. Took paperwork with him, weapons, supplies.

Upon examination of former lodgings, nothing to hint at treason. Everything in order. Everything of standard issue. Write it down on the form anyway.

Item 23: type 8-A nutritional supplement rations, thirty seven doses, in standard issue container.

* * *

The first thing that happens is that he gets hungry.

He's eating and drinking as much as he normally would, but it doesn't feel like enough. Plus, it keeps tasting wrong. The drink all takes on the bitter tinge that reminds him of the small-beer Vasaad used to brew up in west Seheron, that made the water drinkable if not palatable. The food feels gritty in his mouth; shitting sand always did get into everything. Sometimes he bites into a bit of meat and tastes blood on his tongue, but that particular sensation is, at least, not specific to any one place or time.

“You going to finish that, Chief?” Rocky says, leaning over to point at the quarter of pie.

Remember how grinning works. Stretch skin and scars across the bones of your face, bare your teeth. It says: all is well. “Was going to save it for later, but you take this one. I'll get another from the kitchens. Need to keep my stamina up.”

Wink at Dorian as you say it. Annoyed noise, merely a puff of breath, then the usual commentary on how people with one eye shouldn't attempt to wink. Wink again. All as usual. All is well.

The Chargers accept this, break into a song about a blacksmith, Grim keeping them in something approximating time with a fist thumping on the table. Sera leans over the balcony from above and joins in haphazardly for the chorus, or at least the part that goes _and his tool!_ Dorian sighs, exaggeratedly, about how terrible they are, as if he doesn't know all the words himself.

Another round of drinks. Rocky shoves great pieces of the pie into his mouth, and Stitches tells an unlikely story about a fisherman, which he's told many times before, and Bull ignores the way the smell of burnt flesh hangs over the table, the aftertaste of ash in his mouth.

Up stairs that creak with each step. Shadows in every corner. The sweat that gathers on Dorian's skin, at least, tastes as it ought. “If you insist on developing some sort of oral fixation,” Dorian says, tugging at one horn, “you could at least try moving it lower.”

He kneels, ignoring old pain, and takes one of Dorian's feet in his hand. “Here?”

“No, you--” Dorian gets as far as saying, before Bull kisses the sole of his foot and Dorian's leg jerks, accidentally kicks him in the head.

A jumble of _I'm sorry!_ and _I'm ticklish, you idiot_ , fingers smoothing over the injury.

“I've got a hard skull.” he says, capturing the hand that seeks to smooth his pain for a kiss. The skin at Dorian's wrist tastes of Seheron salt-water.

* * *

Hissrad observes everything, because that is part of his duty. The decision on who is supplied what kind of nutritional supplements is not any part of his duties, but he does know who gets what. It's not his job to know why, but he's never been able to stop himself looking for patterns.

There's one in particular which is not correlated to body size, physical requirements of job, or local quality of other available sources of nutrition. The strongest correlation, in fact, is to rank. To what they know.

Those who have reached such status are generally those most dedicated to the Qun; they rarely go astray. When they do, however, the madness seems to hit them worse than any other.

Hissrad knows this, but it is not his job to comment on it. There could be any number of reasons, but it is not his problem to solve. Problems that are his to solve, there are more than enough of those already.

Push it down, down, down. Let it lie silent with all the other questions that are not yours to ask.

* * *

He's not been a deep sleeper, since Seheron. Too risky.

Now, he barely sleeps at all.

Spends a couple nights staring at the ceiling while Dorian snores, cute little snorts that he'll deny forever. Slips out of bed, sometimes, leaving Dorian there. He doesn't even move; sleeps soundly, always, in Bull's bed in a way that he doesn't in a tent out in the Hinterlands.

A show of trust, he supposes. No. Not a show. Not deliberate. Just trust. Right now it feels like that's not wise on Dorian's part, but he couldn't say why. It's just a feeling.

Tonight, an hour down, and then he's up again, some nervous energy working through his limbs. The Herald's Rest is quiet. Cabot adheres to a strict _I'm done working, none of you fucks are sleeping here no matter how drunk you are_ policy.

The air is cold. The stars are bright.

“So many clouds.” Cole says, wondering.

It takes a great effort to suppress the more lethal of his reflexes. “Don't, kid.”

“It's not in places I can reach.” Cole says. “I'm sorry.”

Then he's gone. That it all starts to really go to shit after this is probably, objectively speaking, not his fault.

* * *

Slow sweet teases over drinks. Dorian slouches comfortably into his side, shameless in a way that has less to do with the drink and more with the company, raucous, familiar, comforting. Sera makes a number of obscene hand gestures and he only leans over, smirking. “Creative, but inaccurate.” he tells her, gently nudges her hands slightly further apart. “More like _so_.”

“Your arse really _is_ magic.” she says, laughing. A beat. “As long as you don't actually shit magic, that'd be weird.”

“No, just the gold.” Dorian returns immediately, grinning. “Shit magic has been banned in Tevinter since that unfortunate incident with the Vyrantium sewers.”

Sera laughs, and moves on to a discussion of who has the best tits in the room, and Dorian, having no interest in that topic, leans back towards Bull. “If you're finished with that drink, perhaps this would be an opportune moment to retire? My magical arse and I have plans for you that don't involve either of us being too drunk for vigorous physical activity.”

There's an inch left in the bottom of his cup. It's not doing anything for him right now, but he swallows it down anyway, to avoid comment. “Get your magical arse upstairs, then.”

There are always comments; good natured, though, coming from the Chargers. Dorian returns Sera's gesture with an equally obscene one of his own, and saunters up the stairs deliberately, making a show of it, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure Bull is paying attention.

Upstairs, he strikes a pose, smirks. “My, my. Shouldn't you be afraid, up here all alone with a big bad Tevinter magister?”

It's not a new joke. Tonight, it strikes a fear into him he can't explain. Roots his feet to the floor. Sand under his toes.

A pause.

Dorian's brown furrows, briefly, smooths again. “Or perhaps you're rather in the mood for _naughty_ Tevinter magister?” 

Passed off as a joke, but it hangs between them. A hand on Dorian's hip, steering him to the bed. Too many buckles and ties and _things_ , and for a moment he doesn't know what to do. Be still. Catch your breath. He's spent enough time out in the field with this man. He knows how to bare Dorian's cock without undressing him entirely, how to suck him off, easy and familiar. The taste of him doesn't remind The Iron Bull of anything else. His bones are still itching under his skin.

When Dorian's hand drifts from a horn down to his shoulder, he shakes it off. Every point of contact feels like fire. “Don't.”

“Not reciprocating at this point would just be poor manners.” Dorian responds.

“Not tonight.” Draw back. Put a space between you. It is dangerous.

_What is? For who?_

This time the furrow in Dorian's brow stays. “Well then, if my presence is not required further, perhaps I should go.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Dorian's lips part, and then he presses them back together, a thin line of hurt. Fixes his clothes, hurriedly. Opens the door, pauses on the threshold. Waiting. At this moment, Bull isn't sure what he's waiting for.

Behind Dorian, the Seheron sands stretch on forever.

* * *

Tal-Vashoth go mad without the Qun. In Par Vollen he was taught it, in Seheron he saw it, and never did he question it, all those many years.

“There something going on between you and Pavus?” Krem asks, squaring his shoulders, feet solid in the ground. He's getting better. “He's right pissy.”

Block his attack, return one that drives him back. Not far, though. He takes it well, stance solid. “That's private, Krem.”

The next attack's at a better angle, learning from his mistakes. Not good enough yet, though. Not yet. How much more time does Bull have in which to teach him? In the circle of onlookers, Vasaad stares out at him, silent, accusing. Krem only frowns, thoughtful. “Since when? Normally you'd be gabbing all over the place.”

Tal-Vashoth go mad without the Qun. Yet this didn't start when he left the Qun. It didn't start until the jar was empty. “Don't think Dorian would appreciate that.”

A sequence of blows in quick succession. Good. He needs to be stronger. This is the man who Bull can trust to run the Chargers when the inevitable comes. Krem scowls as each is blocked, presses close, a battle of strength he must know he can't win. “You think we're all idiots, Chief? You think we don't know something's going on with _you_?”

A hard shove sends Krem stumbling back. Does it matter what the cause was? Does it matter if he's right, if it's all lies, right from _sign here to confirm the change in your assigned rations_?

He's seen what happens. He knows what they became, before Hissrad cut them down.

If that's what's waiting for him, he'll be prepared. He won't allow himself to hurt anybody.

There's a lie. He knows the meaning of the furrow in Dorian's brow before he left, the look in Krem's eyes before The Iron Bull turns away and leaves the training field. A little hurt now, then, to clear the space. To ensure they're not there to see the end come.

For the end must come. He has made these sort of decisions before. When one of your men goes Tal-Vashoth, when all other paths to his redemption are shut down, you see that his throat is cut before he has the chance to do any damage. He's made _that_ precise decision before, many times, in Seheron. How can he turn away from what needs to be done now, just because it's his own neck on the line?

 _Maybe_ , whispers a voice, _You should consider that they all died for nothing_. It sounds like a Tallis he knew, who had a liking for summer berries, who always put a portion of her rations aside for the local children, and who had stepped right in the middle of a Fog Warrior trap while he was tracking her down.

She'd never been that careless. He half wonders if it had been on purpose. If she'd felt the madness pressing in, the way he does now, and taken action. If when he'd given her what he thought was mercy--

He can't let himself consider it. Can't let himself be tempted. He had done what was right at the time, to protect those who remained. He will do what is right now, even though he knows those he moves to protect will not be glad of it.

_If it gets in my head, how do I cut it out?_

He dies. Nobody else dies because of him. It's as simple as that.

A problem. He can't trust his own mind now, so he can't do it entirely alone. Can't be certain the voices won't tempt him with their whispers, won't turn the blade from his throat at the last moment. But there is someone he trusts, for a matter of this kind. Someone who understands _unfortunate but necessary_.

* * *

Dorian is still angry, easy to see in the set of his jaw as he walks in Adaar's shadow, out of the gates.

Maybe that's better. Maybe that's easier.

_For who?_

Madame de Fer holds court, in her own way, in the morning, but takes tea before lunch, and generally takes it on her own. He flatters the young maid who normally brings it to her into letting him carry the tray.

There is no surprise, when he enters. She looks him over with a focus as keen and fearsome as any Tamassran, and then gives him a nod, indicating the table where the tea is to go. “You might have considered bringing macaroons. The usual selection is growing rather dull.”

He lays the tea out, careful, neat. “Ma'am.” Pours a cup.

She sips, deliberate, sets it down again. “Out with it, then.”

He lays his theory out for her, also quite neatly considering a young fog warrior is watching him do it, her back against the wall, her hand thoughtfully pressed just to the spot where he'd gripped to snap her neck.

“I see.” Madame de Fer says. “Certainly _one_ solution to the problem of defectors.” Lips tight in disapproval. “I am familiar with potions with similar effects, although in most cases it is a matter of withdrawal after overindulgence, rather than a deliberate poisoning technique.”

 _Poison_. A word he wouldn't have used. He can't make it un-fit.

“It has been a couple of weeks since I stopped taking it.” he says. “It's not getting any better.” Measure it out, the time running through his hands like so much sand.

“Given time and with appropriate measures in place, such things will pass, and a strong mind passes _through_ them. There are ways of making the process easier, although not anything I would call a cure.”

Look straight at her. Her eyes are those of a Rivaini seer he had to kill once, in another time, for another mission. A strong mind passes through, she says; is that her honest belief, or a small kindness on his behalf, or a piece of hope, dangled to ensure cooperation? “I'm not asking you for a cure. Ma'am.”

One of her hands sweeps elegantly to one side, as if to wipe that last statement away. A dismissal. “Left that side of things to your Tevinter paramour? It's not precisely his area of expertise. Or your healer? Perfectly adequate to the task of stitching up battle wounds, but for this-- no. You will permit me to assist.”

“There's no cure for this. I came to ask you for _appropriate measures_.” A pause. Hold her gaze. “I can be blunter about it.”

She does not look away. She does not flinch. “No, thank you. I understand your meaning, I merely disagree with your premise.”

In the end, is there too much softness in even her steel? “I'm a danger. You believe in controlling risk.”

“Controlling risk, yes. Rash, pre-emptive action, no.” A sip of her abandoned tea; an empty gesture, giving herself a moment. He can do nothing but allow it, wait for the verdict. “I will speak to the Inquisitor; he may have contacts. The decision should be in his hands, don't you think?”

Ah, so that's how she plans it. Adaar is everything the Qun said Vashoth cannot be-- give the word to strike a comrade down, if he sees even the slightest sliver of hope? Never. But he is also their leader. That point cannot be argued. The chain of command is, if anything, a comfort now. For all that he is Tal-Vashoth, he can be trusted that much. Bound to that much. “The decision in his hand.”

A small nod, in return for his concession. “And the blade in mine, if it should come to that.”

 _If_. She still hopes, then. Is, perhaps, unaware of the thoroughness of the Ben-Hassrath in leaving no loose ends. But he is grateful for this at least; she does not say _it will be fine_ , she does not say _we will fix this_.

Neither of them have ever been much for the luxury of optimism, after all. “Thank you.”

“You should speak to your men, and to Dorian as soon as he returns.” she says.

It is phrased as a suggestion. He wavers, a moment. He wants-- but that he wants doesn't make it safe for them. Likely the opposite. Hold firm. “With all due respect, Ma'am, I'd rather they weren't involved.”

A small noise of disappointment, as from a Tamassran towards a particularly stubborn imekari. “If you imagine for one single moment that our Inquisitor, as charming as he is, could keep this matter from them, your mental facilities must truly be degenerating. Speak to them, The Iron Bull.”

This time, it is not a suggestion. Speak to them, she says; unspoken: _before I do_.

The Ben-Hassrath are taught that you must know when to retreat from battle, so he does.

* * *

He speaks to Stitches first.

Because he is Stitches, he listens until Bull is done with his explanation in full. Being in charge of keeping the Chargers more or less fighting fit is a job that requires patience. Well, patience, knowledge of a wide range of field medicine, and that one time, a damn good left hook.

Still, he can't quite keep the emotion off his face. Anger, mostly. “This is a bit outside my usual job description.” Stitches says. “You fucking idiot. Stay here, I'll grab a few of the others.”

He comes back with Dalish, Krem, and Grim: his not-mage, his second in command, and the one guy who can definitely keep a secret. Good choices. Stitches does the run-down, this time. Bull doesn't correct his flourishes. It's close enough. “You fucking idiot.” Dalish says.

“Oi.” he complains. “I'm still your boss.”

“You're a fucking idiot, _Chief_.” Krem says. “The only bright point is that you at least thought to talk to Her First Enchanterness, one of the few people around here who are capable of smacking some sense into your thick head.”

“One day,” Stitches says, dreamily, “I hope she'll consider smacking some sense into me.”

Grim makes a terse grunt of disappointment. Everyone else just groans. “Right now, really? Must you?” Krem asks, exasperated. Tension in his shoulders. Broad enough to take the responsibility, though. They'll be okay.

“I am just saying that I have a great deal of respect for Madame de Fer,” Stitches says, and then adds, with a wink, “Underlaid by a fervent desire to have her literally walk all over me.”

He can still laugh. It's almost a surprise. And then: ah shit, I nearly forgot. This is the prize I'm paying the price for. I chose _them_ , and here they are, these assholes.

Set that truth on his skin, vitaar for the soul. Whatever is to come, he can bear it.

  


* * *

Stitches gives him something to help him sleep, with the warning that it will make him feel sick as a dog the next day.

Miraculously, it works. Dulls his all-too-keen senses, silences the ghosts of past and future. It does turn his stomach, come morning; dry heaves, a weight on his limbs. Maybe that's on purpose, a voice whispers. Poison. Slowing you down to make it easier when they strike.

So be it. So much the better.

When Stitches asked him how it went, he says it wasn't enough, wheedles a slightly larger dose out of him for the days to come. Stitches gives him cautious looks and won't give any more than a day's dose at a time, and Vivienne takes care to remind him, when she finds an excuse each day to see him, that no action should be taken in this matter until the Inquisitor himself commands it.

Still, it's enough to slow him down. Means that the Chargers, who are taking it in shifts to follow him around like he's not going to notice, have a good chance of taking him down if they have to.

When they have to.

None of them seem to realise the urgency. Then again, none of them have ever known what the Tal-Vashoth can be, did become, out there in Seheron.

He remembers that first mission. Can see, with hindsight, the true shape of it. One who was so controlled, so cautious, so exacting in his planning of everything, even in his betrayal of the Qun, reduced to the beast that Hissrad had to cut down for its own good.

He won't become that. One thing alone stops him taking matters into his own hands, just yet-- the Inquisitor has not yet returned to make his decision. Madame de Fer once told him that The Game wasn't about the rules you played by, but knowing the rules everyone else was playing by. She's figured out his, too damn well.

It's a pause for breath. The stillness before the dawn of the battle.

Now, if only he can hold out that long.

* * *

He doesn't actually know, when Dorian returns.

Sunlight is no friend, this day, and so he takes refuge in a corner of the Undercroft, well away from the steady rhythm of the forge, well away from anything or anyone who might become collateral damage. Stone and cold and damp, anchoring his thoughts. There's nothing of Seheron here. 

“Bull.”

At first he thinks it's one of the phantoms again. Stitches' foul brew doesn't keep them all away and the ones that speak in voices of dead mages whose faces Hissrad didn't bother to remember have taken to wearing Dorian's form. They curse or plead in Tevene, pointlessly; he knows nothing of it but commands and lies. Be silent. Lay down your weapon. Surrender and be spared.

This Dorian stands on the threshold, or rather, under the arch of it, arms crossed. No Ben-Hassrath training required to see the irritation in his stance. “Krem insisted I come to see you before I'd had the chance to so much as scrape the mud from my boots, not that you were in any of the first dozen places I looked. If this is some jest, I am not amused.”

He is, indeed, dusty from the road, although if Bull's not mistaken he's taken a moment to fix his hair. He's also come without a staff in hand. The Iron Bull feels in two minds as to if that's a good thing. “No jokes.” he tells Dorian. “Not today.”

“Well then, pray enlighten me as to the need for such urgency, and such a location.” Dorian snaps. “If it was an attempt to find a quiet spot to inform me you are no longer interested in continuing our _association_ , there was no need at all. I am long past the age where I would make some sort of scene over something as minor as you losing interest in fucking me.”

He hesitates to reply. Stitches' potion dulls tongue as well as reflexes, and this-- this, he hadn't planned for. His lips part. Dorian gets there first.

“Oh, don't bother to try and find pretty words for it.” he says, sharp, sharp. “It was fun while it lasted, I will look back on it all with fondness, etcetera. Are we done? I need a bath, and a glass of wine, preferably concurrently.”

That would probably be better. That would probably be safer, for Dorian, whose face right now he's seeing overlaid with that of a young mage he'd killed, in a time when it was necessary. When it may have been necessary.

If he knows the truth, he'll try to fix it. He'll feel responsible. The urge that Bull feels to confess everything, to hold on to him with desperate hands, to ask for his help-- that's pure selfishness, Tal-Vashoth, and you know it. Why not let him go, now. While you still can. While you're still capable of that much forethought. “You should stay away from me for a while.”

“Oh, certainly.” Sarcasm thicker than belly-blood. “Wouldn't want to do anything to make things awkward, like dragging you out to the dankest part of the Undercroft to--”

Dorian stops, suddenly. Light forms in his hand, and Bull is not sure if he flinches from the magic, or the light, or what the light might show. “Don't, Dorian. Walk away.”

Contrary as ever, Dorian does not. “Or I could stand here until you tell me what's going on, the way you _didn't_ when your delightful Ben-Hassrath sent their adorable little assassins after you.”

Another time when Adaar hadn't been able to keep his mouth shut, and Dorian had cornered him in his room, furious, and taught Bull several new words in that peculiar dialect of Eastern Tevinter, most of them various shades of _idiot_. At least, he'd guessed so, from the tone. Dorian hadn't been in a mood to translate, or, once he'd run out of insults, to do much actual talking at all.

So much can be lost in translation. So many times the meaning is lost in the middle between them, even when they're speaking the same language. Sometimes he finds he can't help himself. Another habit. Obfuscate. Misdirect. The Iron Bull tells dirty jokes too loud in the middle of a tavern and people presume the obvious.

In this moment he is laid bare under Dorian's gaze. No words to save him now. What should he feel as he meets Dorian's eyes? How should he name it, this sensation? 

It's easy, with the Chargers; a soldier's feeling, nothing all that different than what he'd felt for those who fought alongside him under the Qun. There are a thousand words in Qunlat for that. Many words, too, for the feeling that draws him to Adaar as a leader, for the different sort of command that Vivienne holds, for the kinship implied when Cassandra stands toe to toe with him across the sparring ring.

So many words, and none for this. “It's too dangerous.” Sickness that has nothing to do with the weight of Stitches' potion in his stomach.

“Oh yes, because I am a well-known avoider of risk and danger and all such things.” The light flares with Dorian's words; deliberate show of temper or not, he's not entirely sure. “It's just pure luck, I suppose, that I've survived this long, with only my wit and charm and _incredibly powerful magic_ to protect me.”

The burst of flame that acts as punctuation to the sentence, on the other hand, is certainly deliberate. Still your body, the treacherous shift of weight in preparation. He is not a threat. He is not the threat. “I know you can protect yourself.”

Not untrue, this. He makes a performance out of complaining, when they're out in the field, but it is mostly just the performance-- everyone who stands by the Inquisitor's side has long since learnt of Dorian's competence in a fight. Bull steps into the paths of enemies, blocks blows, shields him, yes, but only as he would any of their long-range fighters. But in that moment, Dorian is not-- whatever it is he is to Bull right now. In battle, Dorian is a barrier settling over his skin where it's needed or a wall of flame and terror battering their enemies, or an arc of lightning singing past his skin to clear his path. In battle, everything is very simple.

Now, he's standing with his arms crossed, stubborn as stone, and Bull's world is getting more complicated moment by moment. “A fine compliment indeed. Well then, now that we've gotten that sorted, perhaps you could actually tell me what's going on?”

Perhaps he can. Try words. Try the truth. “I was always told that Tal Vashoth went mad without the Qun.” A visible thing, the retort that Dorian bites back. “Propaganda, I know. Except if the Ben-Hassrath found a way to ensure it.” Pushing on past the obvious dismay on his face. If you stop talking now the words might never come again. “It happened, on Seheron. High-ranking defectors. They'd seem fine, and then they'd leave, and then we'd track them down and they'd be-- just _bas_. I saw it happen enough times to know when it's happening to me.”

The bluster and fury drops away in a moment, replaced by a sort of wide-eyed hurt. Sympathy for a friend, perhaps; he's already lost one. It's unfortunate, that Bull should have to hurt him in this way, but it's a better choice than any other way he might get hurt.

It is to be.

A pause. "They wouldn't use magic," Dorian mutters, as if to himself, "so-- a drug of some sort? Maybe-- hmm, no, but--" He looks up again, gaze a little distant. "I'll need to do some research, but there are a wide range of purging spells we could try. One of them has to work."

Ah, shit. He can see it, the way the hurt has already set into stubborn determination. "No magic." he manages, fear thick in his throat. Swallow it down. He's not a threat. He's not a threat.

"I can fix this," Dorian insists, "if you let me."

He would certainly try, and there lies the source of the fear. "You think I want magic in my head right now?"

"It's hardly blood magic," Dorian tries, coaxing, cajoling. "Do you have an alternative plan, one that isn't _do nothing and wait to see if it kills me or not_?"

He should probably be thankful Dorian hasn't yet figured out his actual plan. He needs to nip this in the bud, though. He knows it is cruel of him, before he says the words. "There are worse things than dying, Dorian."

Dorian flinches like the words are a physical blow, but rallies. "Do you think it will be that easy to make me walk away?" he asks, low and dangerous. Saarebas, bas saarebas. "I don't appreciate being underestimated."

"I'm not underestimating you. Are you underestimating me?" Step forward, just a little. Keep your distance, but the right distance. Intimidate, but give him room to get out of range. "Thought they taught you better than that in Tevinter."

"And now we're back to the propaganda," Dorian says, "in what is a blatant attempt to distract me from the fact that you've clearly told Krem, and-- ah, Vivienne as well, I suppose, I've never seen her so eager to greet the Inquisitor upon his triumphant return when there wasn't a political point to be made out of it. It's such a comfort to know there are people in the Inquisition you can _trust_ in your hour of need."

How can he have it so wrong, and yet so right? "You're a good man, Dorian."

Dorian scowls at the compliment. Genuine, he thinks, the anger. "Oh, save the empty platitudes. Not good enough, clearly. Not to be trusted with your life."

"Too good to be trusted with my death. You would hesitate. Tell me I'm wrong."

"You expect me to just strike down my-- strike you down without thought? Of course I would hesitate." As if such is natural. As if the very thought it could be any other way offends him.

"And that hesitation would cost you dearly." Does he see, now? "That's why I need you to walk away."

Dorian laughs, bitter. "Oh yes, give me room to leave before I get in over my head, is that the plan? Before I get in too deep. Splendid. Just splendid. Very kind of you. I'm rather afraid I'm going to have to refuse, however."

Another thing he has no name for: whatever that is on Dorian's face, underneath the determination. "If this goes wrong, I could hurt you. I could kill you."

"Shall I add it to the very long list of ways I might die before the year is out?" Dorian says, with that false lightness he uses when he's taking things seriously. "I can fit you in somewhere, I'm sure, between the dragons and archdemons and oddly persistent bears.”

Why are there too many things he has no words for? He knows Dorian risks his life for the Inquisition. As so many do. He would grieve, should Dorian fall in battle. As so many do. But he would understand it. A natural course. Water flows downhill. Soldiers die in battle. A death with purpose. It is to be.

This is different. Dorian all but declares that he's willing to risk his life for The Iron Bull, and he doesn't have the faintest idea what he's supposed to do about that, beyond fear the unfamiliar shape of it.

The standoff is broken then, mercifully. The sharp footfall of Vivienne's heels when she intends her approach to be heard; the somewhat softer step of Adaar, who by habit acts to minimise intimidation. Dorian presses his lips shut, looking annoyed. The Bull turns to face Adaar. “Boss.”

Here is something solid to cling to. A hierarchy. An order. Please. “Quarantine,” Adaar says, “until we figure out what to do about this. We've prepared a place.”

Not nearly enough, but it's a start.

* * *

Cold, thick stone walls. Small high window that lets in cold air and cold light. Solid door, solid hinges. This is all good. A hurried attempt has been made to outfit it to a standard of reasonable comfort, but there's no hiding the purpose of the room.

At least Adaar is taking this seriously.

He wonders what lie they've told to cover his absence. Sickness, perhaps. Something that requires isolation. That's what he would use. It is close to the truth, after all. It would also explain both his segregation from the rest of Skyhold and provide a natural reason for why he won't be coming back.

There's little to look at, little to occupy his mind. He tries to focus on small things, one sense at a time. He can hear a slow drip of water from one corner of the room, and some birds nesting in crannies of the outside wall. Mostly, he hears Dorian and Vivienne bickering endlessly over what counts as a sensible course of action.

“Honestly, it is not that uncommon a technique, in Tevinter.” Punctuated by a thump, a magical tome of some kind, no doubt. He can imagine Dorian seeking answers in a series of books, unwilling to admit the truth.

The longer Vivienne has to argue it with him, the sharper her tone gets. “Darling, we both know that's hardly a point in your favour, considering the wider range of things that are _not uncommon in Tevinter_. Desperate men make unwise decisions.” 

“Do you have any objections grounded in objective fact, or are you just planning to throw about scurrilous mischaracterisations?” 

The more defensive Dorian's feeling, the sharper and more convoluted his words. Vasaad, leaning by the door, produces something like a grin out of the rotting planes of his face, the skeletal remains of his fingers twitching repeatedly, Ben-Hassrath signs.

Be ready. Strike at my signal. Kill the mage first.

Outside, as if unaware of the danger, Vivienne and Dorian are still arguing their respective points. “I was trying to save you face by not using the eminently obvious _emotionally involved_. Allow this to be handled by those who know what they're doing.”

“You can hardly blame me for not wanting to leave this in your hands, given your recent success rate.”

A silence. You could hear a pin drop. He can imagine Dorian's face, in one of those moments where he realises his tongue has gotten ahead of him. Vivienne would show no sign of hurt, but the fact the retort isn't immediate says a lot.

Finally, after a span of years: “You should count yourself lucky, Dorian of House Pavus, that I _am_ able to emphasise with your current situation.” Footsteps, sharp and decisive, fade away. Dorian's soft sigh.

His footsteps pause, as always, outside the door that separates him from Bull, before they too retreat away.

* * *

After a few days, Adaar comes to him again. Vivienne by his side. Dorian hangs back, determination in his stance and unhappiness in the round of his shoulders. He can hear Krem and Stitches just beyond the door, low voices.

It is Vivienne who speaks. Her words are precise, and there are many of them, and it boils down to this:

The pills are both poison and remedy. A slow poison, sunk into his flesh, leaching into his veins. Take away the remedy, and the poison lingers on. Symptoms he doesn't need her to tell him of. Paranoia. Hallucinations.

Every one of them would have known that to leave the Qun was to risk madness. Had any of the others even suspected anything different?

Whether they did or not makes no different to the path before him.

He can wait, or he can act. Stay here until whatever it is in his system is done with him, however long that takes, or swallow this concoction of Vivienne's to purge it out, and hope it doesn't kill him or worse.

 _A man who made a choice_. And what a choice it is.

In the end, no choice at all.

He expects the potion to be bitter; it is instead tamarind-sour, lingering like the memories that which had been Ashkaari clung to even as the sands swept everything away.

Adaar opens the leather bag to his side and pulls out a quite impressive set of chains. “Just to be sure.” he says.

“You have to be _joking_ \--” Dorian starts, looking horrified.

A choice. He holds out his hands.

* * *

In the days to come he will perhaps be glad of this: he doesn't remember the worst of it.

A dark haze. Scent: sweat, blood, smoke, salt. Taste: blood, all blood. Someone tries to make him drink: poison, poison, poison. They're persistent.

Blood on his tongue, words on his tongue. He couldn't tell you the language, let alone the content. Spits them out, like the blood, like the poison they keep trying to make him drink.

It's not safe here. He has to go. Pull against the pain. The chains break.

Something comes out of the air and anchors him down. Magic. _Bas Saarebas_. He knows the feel of it. Familiar.

Safe?

An anchor, not a chain. He holds tight to it.

* * *

He wakes. He is solid in his own skin. Aching, and his mouth tastes like someone threw up in it, but he is himself.

Vivienne sits in a chair by his bedside, watching him with practised indifference. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” he says, and pauses a bit to check on what else he can report to her. Aching, sick, not feeling like he's standing on the edge of a cliff. “Like sane shit. How bad was it?”

“It was preferable, to be honest, when you didn't know who we were.” she says, bluntly. “When you were lucid, you were not kind. But the danger appears to be past.”

This danger, at least. What other dangers might be lurking inside him is another matter. He won't bring it up right now. “Dorian?”

“Resting, because he exhausted himself like the fool boy he is. Solas is seeing to it he doesn't get possessed on top of everything.” A scowl of disdain, to hide the fondness. Some of it manages to seep into her tone anyway.

Resting. From Vivienne, that indeed means _resting_ , not injured, not anything else. Some deep tension eases from his chest. “Go easy on him.”

“I will _not_. Children do not learn by being indulged, The Iron Bull.” She does not lean over and pet his hand, but she gives him a look that is the closest to that sentiment without involving physical contact Bull can imagine. “There will be no permanent harm done and it will all be _extremely_ educational, I promise. Love is no excuse for misbehaviour.”

“Love, huh.” A word for which there is no true translation in Qunlat. A selfish, all-consuming thing. Also, a deliberate choice of words, on her part. Handed to him like a gift in this moment. What is he supposed to do with that word, exactly?

“When a barrier is cast upon you, can you tell the difference between casters?” Her tone is conversational, light. He should probably listen carefully. “I don't mean to ask if you can actually feel all the things lacking in his technique, but would you know his magic when you felt it?”

An odd question. Adaar rarely has more than one mage in a party; he's never been in the position where he had to think about who it was behind him putting up barriers, and frankly he's glad for it. Battle is not the time to be overthinking who your allies are. “Not sure, to be honest.”

She tuts, as if genuinely disappointed. “Think about it, perhaps. Something to consider during your convalescence.”

* * *

Which is to say, Adaar's making him take bedrest. He might even actually need it, beyond what he presumes is a cautionary measure to make sure he's really as okay as he says he is. Or as he thinks he is.

It's not that bad, because he's rarely alone long enough to be stuck with the contents of his own head. Cassandra peers through the door awkwardly and leaves him some of her books. Varric shakes his head at her offerings and offers some of his own. Solas brings a chess set, steps in occasionally to play a few moves, and Sera smears Solas' pieces with pilfered honey and ranks the recent visitors to Skyhold for him by impressiveness of cleavage.

The Chargers are a constant, like the tide. They come and go and sniff in outraged horror at Stitches' potions and poultices and poke at him and stick their fingers in the broth Stitches has decided is good for him and bring him beer and pies and cakes.

It's not entirely good-humoured. “I,” Skinner announces, the first time she enters the room, “am going to shank the entire fucking Qun.”

“I don't think you can shank a philosophy.” he tells her, but gently, in case she leaves and takes the roast beef with her.

“I can if it holds still long enough.” She answers, immediately. “Grim said he'd help. We'd all help.” Punctuates it with a knife in the end of his bed, but puts the roast down on the side table.

Think about it, Vivienne said. He'd placed the Chargers, in his mind, where he would have placed his subordinates in Seheron. A feeling that he had a name for, no matter how uneasy the fit. 

One piece of the puzzle, slipping into place.

So many times he might have gone against the Qun for his men. Might have looked the other way. Might have waited to call in the reeducators. Might have stopped to think about why it was considered allowable, to lose so many, not just in battle. So much sickness. Of body. Of heart.

Hissrad in the sands of Seheron, building castles to stand against the tide like an imekari, as if there was anything he could have done against any of it.

The Iron Bull on the Storm Coast, still needing permission, somehow, for his limbs to obey his heart.

Love is a reckless, selfish thing.

Perhaps he should have let himself feel this sooner. Perhaps he might have saved more of them.

Enough. The past is writings in stone; it can only be learnt from, never changed. Face forward. Move forward.

Dalish punches him in the shoulder. “Stop moping, Chief.” Mutters. “Worse than the 'vint.”

He could ask. He doesn't. “Hey, I'm an invalid here. I'm-- Stitches, what's the word?”

“Chief's convalescing, Dalish.” Stitches says, from his position by the window, stirring up something acrid. “Please only hit him in places where you won't do damage, like in his thick skull.”

“You're all assholes,” he declares, grinning without thought, “and I'm pretty sure Stitches makes that shit taste bad on purpose. Who brought the cards?”

He ends up owing Skinner eight royals, Dalish two rounds of drinks, and Rocky a bottle of Maraas-Lok, which might be unwise given what happened last time he drank some, but whatcha gonna do?

He owes them far more than that.

* * *

It takes a couple of days before Dorian actually comes to see him. The Chargers are on the practice field, upholding the promise he made them swear to not slack off while he's otherwise occupied. Sera brings him lunch, discusses her plans to create a cloak but, like, made of bees, for cunningly disguising yourself (as a swarm of angry bees, presumably), and then leaves, mumbling something about _Leliana made me promise to put them all back before dinner. Itches, anyway_.

A few moments later, Dorian is knocking at his door.

It occurs to him this may not be a coincidence.

Dorian looks fine, with a side of exhausted. A trace, perhaps, of the aggressively put-together _I am fine_ that he wore for a good week after his father turned up in Redcliffe. It's hard to tell sometimes, with Dorian. How much of the blatant performance is honest, how much of it is a performance of a performance.

He's also favouring his right leg, just a touch. Slight, but enough to sour Bull's lunch in his stomach. “You're hurt.”

Dorian looks taken aback, but only for a moment. The mask settles back on his face, his tone light. “Nothing to concern yourself with. Cassandra made some noise about testing my ability to fight without the use of magic, and then beat approximately three to five separate kinds of shit out of me. I'm nearly entirely sure she meant it as a supportive, affectionate gesture.”

And whether that's also an explanation for whether he's wearing his robes in a slightly different way, not covering more skin but covering different parts of it, as if to hide an injury, for example-- no, if he'd wanted Bull to ask the question he wouldn't have done that in the first place. Be silent. You've done enough. “Ah.”

“Believe me, it was preferable to the verbal bruising Vivienne gave me. Apparently I have been quite ghastly.” He pauses. “That does rather sound like me, I have to admit. _Trying_ would be the usual way my parents would phrase it.”

“You're not so bad.” Well, sometimes he sort of is, but Dorian's assholeness is the sort that grows on you. There's no real malice in it.

Dorian smiles. “A kind lie. I'm well aware of my own shortcomings; I'm just not particularly inclined to do anything to rectify them.” He perches on the edge of the chair recently abandoned by Sera, as if uncertain how close he is permitted to be.

Something in Bull wants to reach out and take his hand, but he hesitates. Uncertainty. He has never offered his touch to Dorian for anything as simple as comfort before. He has never asked for the same in return. He can remember each and every time they have touched with the focus of one trained to remember until you forget how to forget. A hand to guide a hand to where the touch is desired, impatient, _what are you waiting for?_ ; a kiss to consume, Dorian's laughing comments about childhood tales of Qunari who devour naughty children.

It is as simple as this: he does not know if this is what Dorian needs, and he does not know if his own need to anchor himself in Dorian's presence is enough reason to close the gap.

A breath, two, three. Silence. Dorian shifts, an exhale not quite a sigh. “Well, you certainly look in much better shape. If I'm ever going to have to watch you sweat that much again, I'd prefer that it was with more privacy, and less clothing.”

Nobody will tell him exactly how bad it was. So he'll guess. “The things I said--”

“That wasn't you,” Dorian replies, immediately, confirming one of his fears, “and honestly, I've heard worse. From immediate relatives, mostly.”

“I'm apologising anyway,” Bull says, “for any hurt caused.”

“I have lived most of my life,” Dorian snaps, “under the presumption that I'd never have the chance to hurt like this.” A pause, while he visibly reels that emotion back in. It is not long enough for Bull to figure out what he ought to say to that. “My original plan involved a number of dashing Orlesian Chevaliers competing for my attention and rather fewer terrible puns, but there you have it.”

A chance to hurt. This unfamiliar ache. He still doesn't have words for it, and Dorian doesn't look like he'd like to discuss emotions, all things considered, so falling back on old patterns it is. “Well, I know I'm a pain in your arse at times--”

“I know you are not at your best, but at least _try_ for something a little less obvious.” Dorian scowls at him, but softly. No more sharpness in it. A moment more, and Dorian is the one that closes the gap, fingers sliding over his wrist. “I thought I might stay a little while. Ensure you actually rest. Pilfer some of the brandy I know Sera smuggled up here.”

Sera had actually handed the brandy over with instructions to drink it with _Magister Fancypants, when he pulls his thumb out of his arse and comes to visit_ , so it wouldn't be pilfering, precisely. “I'd like that.”

Dorian pours two brandies, then half ignores his in favour of fussing over his blankets, which are apparently not _just so_. At closer range, he looks exhausted. “You really should talk to someone about acquiring bedding that's not full of holes.” he says, scowling at a patch he's smoothed down five times already.

“They're warm enough. Lie down with me a moment.”

Dorian gives him a Look. “You are supposed to be _resting_.”

“Stitches already did the It's Not Bed Rest If Someone's Sitting On Your Face talk, and I'm going to have an afternoon nap. An actual one, not the Antivan sort, you know--”

“If the word _delight_ passes your lips, I will leave and take the brandy with me.” Dorian threatens, but sits down to take off his boots. “I suppose I should supervise this nap, as I did promise your healer I would try to discourage you from any of the usual idiocy.”

He can't stop a chuckle. “Oh shit, Stitches gave _you_ the If Someone's Sitting On Your Face talk?”

“He didn't specify to that level of detail.” Dorian says, mock-primly, and then grins. “I got the impression all forms of sitting on you would be rather discouraged, actually.”

“Stitches hates fun.” Does leave quite a lot of options open, granted.

“Nap.” Dorian orders him. “Perhaps I'll come up with some form of gentle physical activity suitable for an invalid, in the meantime.”

What Dorian actually does is fall asleep himself, going from complaining about the mattress to drooling on his shoulder within a surprisingly short space of time. Must still be tired, to fall asleep so quickly. Expression soft and trusting. Legs tangling around his. Scent of that stuff he puts in his hair, and of nothing that shouldn't be here.

He wasn't actually intending to sleep, but he closes his eyes anyway. Drifts a moment. Warmth of the body next to him. Afternoon sun filtering weakly through a shuttered window. Distantly, the sounds of the Inquisition going about their daily business. All is well.

Dorian murmurs in his sleep, indistinct, tightening his grip.

_An anchor, not a chain._

There's got to be a word for it.

It'll come to him, in time.

  



End file.
